


Fallen Is Babylon the Great

by MFLuder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Psychic Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 11:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18281492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/pseuds/MFLuder
Summary: A broken world where there are worse evils than the Demons Hunters used to hunt.





	Fallen Is Babylon the Great

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted October 23, 2006, at [my DW](https://mf-luder-xf.dreamwidth.org/62131.html). Inspired by this [hunter Demon!Dean](http://lexalot.livejournal.com/187810.html) cool art made by Lexalot.
> 
> Once upon a time, I fancied this fic would turn into some absurdly long wholly original universe. Pretty sure I was distracted by a new fandom and it obviously never happened. Nonetheless, enjoy this random peek into an art-inspired AU where the brothers _aren't_ related and Sam is actually a psychic with powers.

Dean crouched in the bush, muscles tense, movements silent. A faint wind fluttered through the vegetation around him so that when he shifted to let the silver tipped arrow fly, the ghoul never thought anything was near him before it was too late.

Dean crept from the bushes and watched as the disgusting monster writhed, various limbs flailing. Standing over it, he took out his gun from its holster and shot a bullet right through its head for good measure. He reached down, wrenching the arrow out from the things body and wiped it on a spare cloth.

His eyes glowed for a moment, before he replaced the arrow with the others and began trotting across the desolate terrain.

###

He set up camp that night in a grove of trees. He tapped into one of them and it gave him a gift of water, asking in return only that he trim its dead branches.

So before he made to sleep, he climbed up to the top and used a sharp, heavy-duty knife to prune it. Red sap leaked out and Dean wished he could ease the tree's ailment, ease the world from the terror that held it captive. But they were useless thoughts in a forgotten and dying world and those who could save it either hadn't come yet or weren't coming. All he could do was take out horror, one creature at a time.

He climbed down again and bowed to the tree which waved its branches and keened in thanks. He unrolled his thin blanket and folded another as a pillow before stripping off his chest armor. The trees would let him know if there was any danger.

He left both pants and boots on, though, and kept a knife under his make-shift pillow.

###

Two weeks later, he came upon the first stream he'd seen for months. Its water was clear, sparkling, even under the darkened sky and Dean knelt, grateful for the chance to bathe and refill his jugs.

When he was done bathing, he climbed out and once more his skin was the color of jasper, free of dirt, black tattoos gleaming. His hair quickly dried in the breeze and had the sky not been the way it was, it would have shone gold. Instead, it too took on the color of his skin, copper highlights turning green just as much as true, weathered copper roofs did.

He quickly washed the rest of his things and slipped back into his leather clothing before heading downstream. Ten minutes later, he heard a moan.

Glancing around, he spotted a man half hidden by a small bush that was flourishing beside the clean water. The person was clearly in pain. He jogged closer.

In front of him, prone on the ground, was a human. It had been a few years since he had seen one. The man, probably in his mid-twenties, had tan skin and dark brown hair. No tattoos. So, he was a pure blood.

Dean knelt down, slipping one callused hand beneath the chestnut head and gently tapped him on the face.

“Wake up,” his voice rumbled, scratchy from disuse.

The man turned his head and his brow crinkled, but he didn't open his eyes.

“Wake up,” he tried again, and this time his voice was strong enough to stir the stranger's eyes. They fluttered open to reveal dark chocolate irises, clouded with confusion.

“Who...?” The voice was nothing more than a whisper. Dean reached into his pack, grabbing out a cloth and dipping it at the water's edge, bringing it to the chapped lips.

The man lapped eagerly at the falling drops and it went on for a few minutes; Dean wetting the cloth, the man drinking. Finally, he was able to speak clearly.

“Who...who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Dean. You?”

“I'm Sam. I'm a Hunter. What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Dean replied.

Sam's brow scrunched up in thought and speaking slowly, he said, “I think it was a wraith. We were battling, and The Wind came. It got more powerful. I had to flee. Before...The Wind...”

Dean nodded, needing nothing else. “Do you mind...?” he questioned.

Sam shook his head no and so Dean unbuttoned the man's shirt made of the flexible armor most humans wore. Doing so revealed a mass of bruises and raw skin, bright purple on Sam's natural tone. He also noticed a small raised part of Sam's skin right in the center of his chest, some symbol, but one he didn't recognize.

“You're going to need care. I don't think you totally escaped it. How does your mind feel?”

“I feel myself, if that's what you mean. No new thoughts, nothing different. Just hurt,” Sam breathed, struggling to sit up.

Dean pushed him back down. “I've seen a place, further ahead. Where I was heading. It shouldn't take too long to get there. I'm going to carry you, so you don't put strain on your body. Yes?”

Sam wearily eyed him up and down, taking in the cryptic tattoos, then back to Dean's face before he nodded. Dean slung his pack back on, then paused.

“Stuff. Did you have anything?”

“I did. But it wasn't anything important. Nothing I can't get new at a market.”

“We might be a long way from one,” Dean cautioned.

Sam looked at him and this time, his gaze seemed to go deep into Dean as though he were searching for the soul Dean didn't have. “It's alright. I trust you. We'll find one soon enough.”

Dean was perplexed but decided not to ask. He hoped Sam had been right when he said he felt like himself, that The Wind hadn't turned him, leaked in.

He adjusted and reached down to grab Sam. The man was quite tall and probably weighed two hundred pounds, but Dean was strong and his stamina wouldn't fade for several days, especially after having refreshed himself from the past few month's trek.

Sam's head lolled back once before he curled it into the crook of Dean's elbow.

Dean thought he heard Sam mumble, “I didn't think you would come,” before he became dead weight and passed out.

###

Sam's mind was hazy for many days, unsure where he was, only knowing that he couldn't see the perpetual dark blue sky with its pink clouds anymore. Instead, some kind of tan cloth covered his view, which he assumed was a tent.

Sometimes, he woke to see nothing around him but the black blanket he slept on and the tan cloth. Other times, he woke to _his_ face. The one he'd been seeking.

They never spoke to each other, nothing more than a 'shh' or 'rest now' from Dean, and he couldn't read the luminous eyes. But he felt safe and his abilities never raised an alarm, so he let it go.

Until one day he woke and felt alive.

Sitting up, he glanced around, finally fully cognizant of his surroundings. Sure enough, he was in a muslin tent, atop a black blanket and had cloth thrown over his groin. He flushed at the thought that Dean had seen him. He wasn't shy; he simply didn't like being defenseless.

Making sure the cloth was tied tight, Sam crawled out of the tent. He stood, gaining his balance, and glanced around. It took him a minute to find Dean.

Dean was standing in the midst of a small grove of trees, raising his arms above his head, the trees waved with him. Black designs stood out in contrast to the light green of his skin and Sam had the sudden urge to trace each one, to come to understand it and speak its language.

It wasn't odd, _per se_. Demons and humans had worked for generations together, ever since the world first collapsed – since something more evil than the demons came along. Yet there was still a part of him that spoke in his father's voice, urging him to never trust one, that the demons were only helping for their own gain. At the time, Sam had argued back saying wasn't that what the humans were doing as well, but obviously those teachings were etched deeper than bone.

His father had once said, “Never consort with a Demon, Sam. Remember you are human. You're a Hunter. We used to hunt them. One day, we'll hunt them again and they us. That doesn't just go away.”

But once more, Sam was about to do the exact opposite of what his father had told him.

###

Dean knew when Sam came out of the tent, knew that he was well again. That didn't stop him from speaking to the trees. They told him of a great disturbance out west. In the red hills, where the dead trees gave no shelter, something was happening. They didn't know if it was a new evil, or a resurrection of good; maybe a group of Hunters going about and killing the ghouls and wraiths with abandon. But the trees were worried, they didn't like what their cousins told them, the taint in the water.

Returning to camp, he found Sam sitting on the blanket, clothed once more. Dean almost regretted the return of clothing; Sam's broad chest had been pleasantly distracting. But then, distraction wasn't something he could afford, considering the new events.

“I see you're awake.”

“Yes.”

“Feeling better?”

“Much, thanks to you.”

Dean shrugged it off. “We're both Hunters. I do what I can.”

“You did more than you needed to though, and I appreciate it.”

Dean grinned, flashing white teeth. “Don't mention it.”

Sam nodded.

“Now that you're feeling well again, I figure you want to set out.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that works because I've heard of something I need to take care of. We can go our own ways.”

Sam tilted his head. “What is it?”

“What?” Dean asked.

“That you need to take care of.”

“Oh, that. Just a disturbance.”

“I want to help.”

Dean sat down, cross-legged and picked up a gun and grabbed the polish from his bag. “No need to do so. I'm sure you had your own course. Don't feel indebted to me.”

“I don't.”

Dean looked up and raised an eyebrow.

Sam grinned sheepishly. “Well, okay, I do. But this isn't about that.”

“Look, Sam. I'm sure you're a great Hunter and all, but I work alone. I have for a long time.”

“You don't have to. I have...abilities, that could help you.”

“Abilities. What human would have something to offer a Demon?”

“I am _psyche_.”

Dean hissed in a breath and felt a deep hunger stir. He watched as Sam carefully regarded his reaction and he forced himself to remain calm and not let the newly awakened senses take over.

“And you offer yourself to me – to help – why?”

“I have a feeling.”

“We all have feelings. They're not fool-proof.”

“Have you met a psychic before?”

Dean lowered his head. “Once.”

“And?”

He glanced up and when Sam shuddered, he knew his eyes were flashing. “I promised myself I'd never deal with another ever again.”

“I see.” Sam gazed back at him, no longer flinching. “Well, I understand then. After all, Demon-human alliances have never come easy. I suppose you wouldn't be able to control yourself, anyway.”

Dean blinked, hackles rising. “I'm sorry, what?”

Leaning forward, Sam whispered in his ear, hand coming up and seemingly absent-mindedly stroking Dean's neck, “Don't think I didn't see you awake. You want me. Demons always do.”

Dean felt something touch his mind and he stifled a cry, pleasure coursing through his veins.

“See?” continued Sam's voice, just audible over Dean's panting. One hand reached out and grabbed for something to hold onto and landed on Sam's hip. His skin was so soft... “It's something Demon's always crave. Why we've hunted each other for so long. You to gain, us to keep safe.”

Dean's breathing was slowing down again, and he spoke. “You either know your folklore well or you've met my kind before.”

Sam leaned back, a smug look in his dark eyes, though nothing showed on his face. “I've been taught well.” Then he was serious again. “But I don't do this to force you. I just think you should consider it. I know you can protect me from The Wind and I can see things you never could. A liaison of convenience, if not friendship.”

Dean thought. “Is that why you have that symbol on your chest?”

Sam glanced down and rubbed a large hand over where the raised flesh was. “Actually, it's a birthmark. I've always had it. I've never been able to figure out what it was.”

Dean stared, trying to determine if the man was lying, but he seemed to be honest. He tried to say no. Tried to force his rational side to conquer.

But the way Sam was looking at him and now that he had touched Dean's mind, Dean could feel him, feel his power. And the hunger in him roared its head and he heard himself say, “Yes,” and he knew he was doomed.

The broad-shouldered man in front of him smiled, standing and beginning to fold the blanket he had slept on for four days. In the time it took Dean to sit quietly and blank his mind as he finished cleaning his gun, Sam had packed everything and folded it neatly into Dean's bag.

Dean made a face.

Sam glanced at him and laughed. “My dad always wondered why I worried about neatness as well. I just find it easier to carry this way. And once I get my own stuff, I'll let yours be as much of a mess as you want it.” He hefted the pack onto his shoulder.

Dean stood up gracefully, grabbing it back and before Sam could begin to protest, he said, “You just got well. I don't want to have to slow down again because you over exert yourself. Here, take this.”

He gave Sam the gun he'd just cleaned.

“But don't you need—?”

“You saw what I had in my bag. I've got plenty more weapons, including my arrows for long range.”

Sam took the gun and its holster, wrapping it around his waist where it barely made it around. Dean was buff, but still had a fairly trim waist, while Sam was one giant mass of muscle everywhere. Dean supposed it was the human way of compensating for their lack of demon strength.

“Come on,” he started walking, “it's going to be a long way to the nearest market.”

Sam followed and they both walked into the west.

###

_Sam ran and ran. They were almost to the city, they could make it._

_But the wind rose, and he could hear the screams of millions riding it._

_Faster, faster, he went, Dean right behind. Dean could outrun him, but didn't want to leave Sam, something he would have felt grateful for if he wasn't so sure they were both going to be caught. Dean could carry him, but even a Demon couldn't outrace The Wind carrying someone Sam's size._

_And so they ran, seeing the small domes of the city ahead rise into view, seeing the perimeter that could stop The Wind if only they could make it past the gates._

_It licked at their heels, giggling madly like the thousands of people it made crazy. It started to rise, and Dean shouted, “Run, Sam!” and stopped, turning to face The Wind._

_Sam yelled over his shoulder, “Dean!” but still he stood there, and in ten strides, Sam reached the gates and ran through. The doors slammed shut and through the glass he could see Dean still standing, arms up to embrace it. Sam tried to get back out, but hands stopped him, and he couldn't see anything but Dean, Dean, Dean._

_He dropped to his knees and as the green form was swallowed up, he screamed._

_“Dean!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, this fic does do that annoying classic trope in fantasy where one capitalizes The Important Thing needlessly. *laughs at self*
> 
> Follow and chat with me [on tumblr](http://mf-luder-xf.tumblr.com)!


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